Friday, June 08, 2018
Beware the Hips of Jake!
We didn’t even make it half a mile before I had to abort our mission, but they decided to walk with me and we explored the newish paved trail—which is super-awesome—that runs between E Avenue—which is gross and dumpy and needs a tornado and a developer with a vision for a new and brighter utopian, space-needle-like future—and the new Mt. Mercy sports complex—which looks super-awesome but seriously, sports? me?—and we ended up covering 2.8 miles.
And I’ve clearly infected Rob with the selfie virus—which makes him weak and socially pathetic—because he suggested we take a selfie—which again is weak and socially pathetic—before I even thought of suggesting it myself. And that’s alarming. And a first. And say it with me: weak and socially pathetic.
Anyway, here we are—all resisting being in a selfie except Rob, who is making an absolute fool of himself—posing in front of his hyper-macho manly-man testosterrific muscle car, which he has incongruously named Princess Sparklepony. Straight people, amirite?
And I’m left with a re-wrecked hip, which I shall name Rear Admiral I.T. Band McDisappointmemt. Or Getajob Yahippie. Or Bennehip Arnold. Or Nancyhip Toosoon Questionmark McKerrigan. Or Cap’n Hipshit. Or Eleanor. If that name isn’t already taken.